Entente
by TortiQuercu
Summary: For Gaby and Illya, it's out of the frying pan and into the fire. Or, what happens when they got to a hotel. A sequel piece to "Détente", please read first.


**A/N: This is a sequel piece to my earlier post, _Détente_ , which I strongly recommend reading first. That was going to be a one-shot, but I got a few requests for follow-up, sooo here it is! ^_^**

* * *

It took Gaby Teller a disconcerting amount of time to realize she had been shot.

She hadn't heard the pop after stepping out of the car, the same pop that obviously Solo and Illya had detected. She wondered why they had both sprung into action: Solo was stepping away from the hotel doors while pulling out his pistol out, and Illya had slid across the hood of the car to appear at her side.

She didn't know why she had frozen in place. Her surroundings slipped into a silent slow mode. She started in fascination at Solo, watching his mouth move soundlessly as he ran. Who was he yelling yet? Illya was fiercely pulling at her arm. She turned (so slowly, like the air was clear molasses) and blinked at him. He was shouting silently as well, his gaze pinned on her chest. She looked down and was more than confused by the bright crimson stain, trickling lazily down her flank.

"Get her inside!" Solo bellowed, his eyes scanning the landscape around their luxurious Johannesburg hotel.

"Already on it, Cowboy," Illya replied tersely as he scooped Gaby up into his arms. She was staring at him blankly. "Find him and kill him."

Solo was sprinting away from the car. "Already on it, Peril!" he shouted back.

" _Well,_ " Gaby thought to herself with an audible huff of disdain, " _this isn_ _'_ _t_ at all _what I_ _'_ _ve been waiting for_ ," and then she passed out. Kuryakin held her close and darted into the hotel.

The front desk clerk was very surprised by the towering blond giant, staring down at the slight brunette, unmoving in his arms. She cleared her throat. "Welcome to the Four Seasons, sir…"

"Mr. and Mrs. Sokolov," the man growled in a thick accent. "I believe my business partner, Mr. Calderwood, has already checked in."

"Oh yes," the clerk gave him a perky smile. "He did! You're in the Protea Suite, sir…"

"Hurry," the Russian interrupted brusquely. "My wife is… is ill." His voice seemed to catch and he held her more closely. "I wish to get her into our room immediately."

The clerk gestured quickly at a bellhop. "Of course, Mr. Sokolov. Should I summon a doctor?"

The huge man hesitated. "N.. no, I wish to get her settled first. Quickly."

The clerk handed the room key to the bellhop, who ushered them into an elevator.

"Hold on, Gavryusha," Illya whispered at her ear. "Hold on." She groaned softly.

Within minutes, they were alone in an expansive hotel suite. Illya gently laid Gaby down on the bed and began rushing around the room, gathering supplies. By the time he returned to her side, she was stirring.

"Gaby," he pleaded, "open your eyes." He carefully wielded a pair of scissors from the desk and began cutting away the top of her dress.

"Damn it, Illya," she muttered in irritation. "This is a Courrèges, you know."

He bit back a nervous laugh and continued snipping. Her wide brown eyes opened and looked up at him with a mischievous twinkle.

"Yes, I know," he responded with an amused twitch of his lips. "And it is a shame, because you don't have anything else to wear with those boots."

"Then I will wear nothing with these boots," she teased him, prompting Illya to raise a blond eyebrow.

He put the scissors down and carefully peeled the fabric and plastic of her couture dress back, sucking back a breath.

Gaby's forehead creased in concern. "Is it that bad?"

He flashed her a brief and unsteady smile. "You will be fine."

For the first time, Gaby grew very concerned. "Was I shot? It stings."

Illya's laughter this time was solid. He opened a bottle of vodka and poured a healthy amount of it onto a cloth. "Yes, Gaby. You were definitely shot." He cleaned the wound, swiping gently across her ribcage. "Looks like…. 7.62mm round. Sniper rifle, probably SVD. Dragunov. Russian-made."

"Pffft. Russians!" she lamented, wincing at the burn from the alcohol.

"Must not have been a Russian who fired it, though," Illya added.

"Oh? How can you tell?"

"He missed."

Gaby raised her arm weakly and swatted at her partner. "You fool."

He grinned and held the cloth against her side. "Lucky for you. Yes, you must have turned just as he fired. It grazed you. It's taken a pretty chunk of skin, is true, but you live. I will bandage you up."

Gaby's response was barely a whisper. "Thank you, Illya."

He tossed the bloody rag onto the floor and reached for a piece of clean linen. He tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Of course."

She bit her lower lip and watched as he tore a cotton undershirt into strips. "Is that your shirt?" she asked. She glanced down and realized that his suede jacket was gone and his turtleneck was untucked.

He nodded. "Will get some proper bandages later, when Solo returns."

"I'm always taking your shirts," she sighed.

He chuckled. "You look good in my shirt, even better than the Courrèges." He paused, and held up a tattered length of cloth. "This one, perhaps, not so much. Can you sit up?"

"Yes, give me a moment…." she attempted to wriggle up into a sitting position and gasped at the pain. Illya quickly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and helped her upright. Under her breath, Gaby muttered several choice German curse words.

"You probably cracked a rib," Illya explained. He once again picked up the bottle of vodka, this time splashing some into a crystal low-ball glass that he then held out to her.

She grabbed the glass from him and downed the contents in a single gulp. "Damn it!" she breathed in frustration.

"Is very lucky you are even alive, Gabriella," he admonished her as he pressed the linen against the bloody gash and pursed his lips. "Cracked rib, bullet wound. These things heal." He started wrapping the torn lengths of cloth around her chest, securing the linen bandage in place.

"I am angry," Gaby complained, trying to ignore the heat of his fingers trailing across her ribcage.

Illya nodded in agreement. "Solo will find the shooter. He will not live to regret taking the shot."

"No," she sputtered. "Angry at _myself._ "

He gave her a perplexed look. "Why?"

A flush appeared across her cheeks. "Never mind," she grumbled.

His expression turned exasperated while he carefully knotted the fabric between her breasts. "Fine, then," he mumbled, trying to keep his focus. "All done. I will call to have our bags brought up…"

"Illya…."

"…. so you can get changed…"

"Illya!"

His blue eyes met her and it took her breath away to see them touched with pain. Her chest clenched, and it had nothing to do with the wound in her side. She reached out for his shoulder, but he quickly stood up and pulled away.

"Get some rest," he told her as he stepped towards the door. "I'll be in the sitting room."

"Illya, no," she breathed.

He slowed and looked back at her inquisitively. She frowned. She tried to reach and grab the vodka from the floor, her fingers scrabbling at the neck of the bottle. He sighed, and returned to the bed to pick it up and poured her another glass.

He held it up in front of her face. "Good?" he asked, his accent thick.

She didn't reach for the vodka. Without being aware of it, she began to nervously chew her lower lip. Illya, however, noticed immediately and quietly cursed at the way his body was betraying him in response. His KGB handlers would not be impressed by this weakness.

"What is wrong? Tell me," he demanded. He put the glass on the the nightstand and sat down on the bed beside her.

"Do you think I'm weak now?" she blurted out, turning to face him with a pained wince.

Illya stared back at her, momentarily stunned. Was she reading his mind, or was she….?

"You think you are weak?" he asked her in amazement. "Gaby, you were _shot_. By sniper. None of us knew he was there. You almost…. he… he could have killed you." His fingers began to tap a faltering rhythm on the side of the bed.

"But now it hurts," she whimpered, and his anger continued to spike. He snapped his shaking hand out for the vodka and swallowed a burning mouthful whole. "It hurts and now you won't keep your promise!"

The vodka froze in his throat and he began to choke and wheeze. "What?" he gasped at her. "My promise?"

"Your promise to brand me and make me…."

"I remember my promise, Gaby," he interrupted, not sure he could keep calm if she voiced it aloud. "But what does that have to do with bullet in your ribs?"

Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "How can I be strong and fragile at the same time?" she asked, repeating his words from the riverbank. "It defies logic, you said."

He thought maybe he was starting to understand. "Oh, Gaby. If you think this means that I want you any less, you are wrong. Very wrong. I will wait."

"But I don't want to wait!"

He shook his head at her. "I will not hurt you, Gabriella. Not like this."

"Would you have rather gone after the sniper yourself? Left Solo to catch the fainting flower?"

"W…what? Of course not!" Illya growled. "I never said that…"

"Would it have been easier if he'd made the shot?"

" _Вот чёрт_ _!_ No!" He cursed and leapt off the bed, his hands twitching at his sides.

She shrugged one shoulder wearily. "You could be chasing him down right now, looking for this… what did you say it was? A Dragunoy SVD? Something you could grab with your hands… something you could break…."

Illya spun around to face her, his eyes shining with rage. She was already holding up the vodka bottle, which he grabbed roughly and whipped at the wall with a wordless bellow. The bottle shattered and sprayed across the room.

"….would you be closing your fingers around his throat right now?" she continued to taunt him, her German accent growing more profound with each word. "Your own way of thanking him for getting rid of the little chop shop girl?"

Illya reached for the telephone on the nightstand. In one smooth motion, he ripped it from its cable and threw it through the glass of the bedroom window.

"It hurts," Gaby added with a hiccup.

The scissors he had left on the floor were now in his hand. With a loud shout, he turned to an armchair in the corner of the bedroom. He descended on it in a fury, hacking viciously at the upholstery.

Wavering slightly, Gaby stood. She silently padded over to him. When he spun back around, the scissors still clutched above his head, she didn't so much as flinch.

She reached a hand up and placed it cooly on his cheek. "Kuryakin", she whispered. "This is part of you, yes. But you can control it. Just breathe."

With a strangled choke, he dropped the scissors. She slowly raised her other hand and wrapped it around his neck. "Illya…." she murmured, standing up on her tip toes. "Will you kiss me?"

His eyes flashed dangerously. "You provoked me," he stammered.

"Yes. To free you," she responded, her breath sweet of vodka. "Because we are both strong."

He gave a short laugh and folded one massive hand against her injured side. Her pulse quickened but she didn't blink. "You like to play with fire, don't you?"

"I'm an auto mechanic, Illya. I know all about controlling the spark," she smirked at him.

He threaded his other hand into her thick brown hair, marvelling at the weight and softness of it. "Yes, I see that," he rumbled.

"I asked you a question."

He gave her a smug look. "And I have your answer."

Before Gaby could think, Illya's lips crashed to hers, moving against her with no less ferocity than he had shown the upholstery. His free arm snaked under her ass and lifted her off the floor in a single motion that left her head spinning. She groaned into his mouth and her hand tightened around his neck.

He broke away, his eyes burning into her. "Are you okay, Gaby?"

"Don't stop," she panted in reply and she threw herself back into his kiss. He stumbled off balance but didn't drop her… never, in a million years, would he ever drop her.

They crashed into the bedroom wall, knocking a handsome oil painting to the ground in the process. She sunk her teeth into his tongue as it swept through her mouth. He responded by tightening his grip around her, catching the edge of the bandages he had tied and causing them to loosen.

She glanced down at the coiled material and the ruins of her mini dress, still hanging from her waist. "Leave it," growled Illya, pulling at the dress. It ripped with a satisfying sound and he whipped it away from her body, where it smashed into a lamp opposite the room with a loud crash.

He looked down at her in his arms, taut and muscled in her underwear, her eyes burning for him. He knew this was dangerous, and that made it utterly irresistible. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and was surprised when a low moan emerged instead. Gaby was slowly licking her way up the side of his jaw.

"Nngghhh," he said.

"Mmhhmm," she agreed, nipping her way across his cheek. "Only, you're wearing too many clothes."

"We can fix this," he breathed, nosing lightly by her ear and making her shiver. She grabbed immediately for his belt buckle. He responded by throwing her back onto the bed and pulling his turtleneck off.

When his head was free from his shirt, Gaby was gone. He turned in a flash to see her backside as she walked into the sitting room, swishing her hips, dangling her brassiere from her finger tips behind her. He made an animal-like sound and she looked at him over her shoulder.

"ты идешь?" she asked silkily. He pounced.

It was well over an hour before Napoleon Solo made it back to the hotel. Slightly bruised, definitely tired but very proud of himself, he swung open the door to the Protea Suite without so much as a knock.

Not even a full step in, he froze. A broken table. The drapes pulled down from the window. A mirror, shattered into pieces, and a marble statue by the desk, awkwardly missing its head. There was a smear of blood on the wall and motion by the sofa, and Solo pulled out his pistol again.

"You _could_ knock," said a slightly annoyed Russian voice, and Kuryakin sat up, pinning him with a somewhat exasperated glare over the back of the velvet settee. He was shirtless and practically glistening with sweat. Solo blinked at the hulking blond and his impressive torso for several seconds before lowering his weapon.

"Ah," he replied glibly. "I see. So, Gaby is all right, then?"

"I'm just fine, thank you!" she called in a delightful sing-song tone, from somewhere… well… beneath Illya, Solo presumed. A shapely nude leg rose up from the sofa and waved in greeting.

Illya caught the leg and ran his fingers up her calf, eliciting a series of giggles from beyond the cushions that made Solo run a bit hot under his collar. Kuryakin gave him a curious look. "Did you kill the sniper?" he asked bluntly.

"Uhhh… yes! Yes, of course I did," Solo supplied, pulling at his tie.

"Oh, wonderful," sighed Gaby, unseen. "Thank you ever so much, Napoleon. Now, would you mind doing another favour, if you would be so kind?"

"Not at all, Fräulein Teller," he smiled at her… which, given that he could see nothing of her except a naked leg, probably wasn't coming across.

"Would you lock the door on your way out, please?"

Illya laughed out loud, a strange and disconcerting sound, in Solo's opinion. The Russian raised an eyebrow at him.

Shaking his head, Solo smirked back. "Of course. Glad you're okay, Gabs, even if you did jump from the frying pan into the fire."

"I like playing with fire," she responded, settling her delicate foot against Illya's cheek. Solo turned away quickly before witnessing what Illya was going to do about that, although he had some vivid suggestions of his own.

"I can see that," he smiled instead, stepping through the door again. "You kids have fun."

"We are," growled the Russian, and Solo briskly twisted the lock and shut the door.

"Congratulations, Solo," the American chuckled out loud. "You owe yourself five hundred bucks and a drink."

He whistled cheerfully as he strolled away.

* * *

Вот чёрт! = Damn it!

ты идешь? = Are you coming?

Post-script: the psychological triggering technique that Gaby uses on Illya here is layman's impression of immersion therapy, or "flooding". It wasn't actually developed until the late 60's, and really isn't something that should be played around with like this. Psychologists, please forgive me. :)


End file.
